


Illness and Injury

by loosebolt



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Established Relationship, Hospitals, James Bond is 99 percent of MI6's WIA count, Love Confessions, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-14 13:33:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29171922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loosebolt/pseuds/loosebolt
Summary: All it takes is a burning building, a broken limb, and a bullet wound for Bond and Q to have an important conversation.
Relationships: James Bond/Q
Comments: 4
Kudos: 93





	Illness and Injury

“Get out, 007!” Q commands in his ear as Bond turns the corner into a hallway rapidly filling with smoke.

“I’m not leaving here without the memory stick,” Bond retorts, crouching to avoid the smoke as he runs down the hallway. 

“If you don’t leave the memory stick, you won’t be leaving that building at all,” Q says. “We don’t know where the fire is. You may only have minutes before either the smoke kills you or the heat does. Medevac are already on their way, you just need to get out of the building. Now!”

“I have a mission.”

“The safe might survive the fire anyway, we can retrieve it later, James, just _get out of there.”_

“But someone else might get to it first,” Bond says. His eyes are burning; he tries to blink the sting away. “Anyway, I’ve found the office.”

Once he spots the small safe under a desk, it takes him only a few seconds to open it with the key he lifted off a corpse on his last mission in Catanzaro. He finds the memory stick and secures it in his inside jacket pocket. “I’ve got it,” he says.

“Excellent. Now go, 007. And be careful. We don’t know whether the fire was set by someone or where they are.”

“What about the other stuff in here? There are some files, and—”

“Leave it! Damn it, James, get out! Lock the safe and go,” Q hisses.

The smoke has grown thick in the hallway. Bond pulls the collar of his shirt over his nose and mouth as he retraces his steps through the building to the exit.

“Do you know the way out?” Q asks. “I’m sorry, we’re completely blind over here.”

“I’m fine,” Bond assures him, ignoring the way his eyes burn and his head hurts and how he’s sweating from the rising heat.

Pushing open the door to the stairwell, he stops in dismay. The smoke inside is thick and dark. He can't get out that way. Doubling back to the hallway, he opens the first door he sees. 

“Q, I’m going out the window,” Bond says.

“Is it safe?”

It’s dark outside, but even so he can see it’s a clear drop down onto grass below. “Looks like seven, maybe eight metres. It’s the only option.” He picks up a chair and rams the legs into the window, breaking the glass. Bond leans his head out into the night, taking a deep breath of blessedly clean air. He’s about to jump, but then he hesitates. The fall likely won’t kill him, but just in case… 

Ducking back inside, he takes off a shoe and pulls the memory stick out from his jacket, shoving it down his sock until it sits securely behind his ankle. Then he puts the shoe back on, climbs out onto the window frame, and jumps.

He lands on the grass and rolls, allowing himself a momentary sense of triumph before he feels a flare of pain in his leg. “Q,” he gasps.

“Are you hurt?” asks Q’s voice in his ear.

“Think I broke my leg.”

“Right. Can you move at all? You need to get as far away from the building as you can.”

“Yeah, okay,” Bond breathes. Wincing, he reaches his arms and his good leg out, trying not to jostle the broken leg as he pulls himself forward. He keeps going, his lungs aching, the pounding in his head growing stronger, and then—

The first gunshot he hears; the second one he feels.

Pain rips through his abdomen. Bond slumps down, his face hitting the grass.

“007? Were those gunshots? James, say something.”

“‘m hit,” Bond wheezes.

“Not what I wanted you to say,” Q jokes weakly. “Okay, James, listen to me. You'll be all right. The chopper’s close, we’re getting you out of there. You just have to stay with me, can you do that?”

“I’m sorry, Q,” Bond mumbles into the grass.

“You’ve nothing to be sorry for. You’re going to be fine. James? You’re going to be fine,” Q says desperately.

Bond’s head is spinning; he feels his heart racing. He spares a distant thought for the memory stick in his sock and hopes that he’ll be dead before his assailants come and take it from him. “I’m sorry,” he whispers again.

“James, no—” Q's voice breaks.

“I thought we’d have more time. I wanted to have more time with you… Q…”

“No, no, no,” Q begs, “no, James, you can’t go— you can’t leave me, James, I love you— I love you, please stay with me, stay with me…”

Bond’s eyelids fall shut. He hears a roar of noise, and the world slips away.

Bond is lying in a bed. Slowly he becomes aware of the sound of machines beeping and the warmth of a hand in his own. He tries to open his eyes, but his eyelids are impossibly heavy, so he relaxes back into the pillow instead.

“Am I in hospital?” he croaks.

“Yes,” Q answers.

“Got hurt, did I.” 

“That’s how one usually ends up in hospital,” Q says, his voice full of warmth and amusement.

“Not true,” Bond protests. “One can also get sick.”

“You’re right,” Q says, “but I’d hazard that you in particular are more likely to land yourself in hospital with injury than with illness. Though I suppose this is a bit of both.”

“One time,” Bond murmurs, “one time, when I was a boy, I had appendicitis. And when I woke up after the surgery, my mother was sitting by my bed. Just like you are.” He feels Q’s thumb stroke his hand. It’s rhythmic and comforting. “She’d have liked you,” Bond says, distantly but with certainty.

Q squeezes his hand. “Sleep, James,” he tells him, and Bond does.

When he wakes up, Q is asleep in a chair. Bond casts a look around his hospital room, taking in the cast on his leg and the IV drip in his arm. With his other hand he touches his abdomen, which is bandaged under his hospital gown, then reaches up to adjust the cannula in his nose.

“Q?” he says softly.

“Hmm,” Q groans. His eyes blink open and land on Bond. Relief fills his expression. “You’re awake! How do you feel?”

Bond considers this question. “Like whatever painkillers they’re giving me are very good,” he decides.

“Only the best for you,” Q jokes, but then the laughter in his voice gives way to a more serious tone. “I was so worried about you. Smoke inhalation, a broken leg, and a gunshot wound. Most people don’t manage all three of those in a lifetime, let alone an hour.”

“Oh, you know me. If I have to go to hospital, I like to make it worth my while,” Bond quips. His attempt at levity falls flat, though. Q still looks worried, even afraid.

“What’s the last thing you remember?” Q asks.

Bond furrows his brow and looks up at the ceiling, searching his memory. “The building was on fire… I jumped out the window, and then— my leg— there were gunshots— I got hit. They must have found me…” He winces. “The memory stick—did they take it?”

Q shakes his head. “No, we found it in your sock. They took your gun, though, for all the good it’ll do them.”

Bond snorts. “Christ, what amateurs. Can’t believe they almost killed me.”

Q is silent for a long moment. “I don’t know what I’d do if they had,” he finally says.

Bond turns his head to meet Q’s eyes. “You were in my ear. You told me to stay with you, that medevac were coming. You told me that you love me.” 

Q remains utterly still in his chair. Bond relaxes back into the pillow. “That’s the last thing I remember.”

“Okay,” Q says softly, his voice wavering almost imperceptibly. “Right. James—you—“

“Come here,” Bond interrupts.

Q gets to his feet and crosses the short distance to Bond’s bedside. Bond reaches out and takes his hand.

“Kiss me,” he says.

As he leans down, Q’s expression melts into the beginnings of a smile. He brushes a hand over Bond’s brow and down to his cheek, and presses a soft kiss to Bond’s lips. When Q pulls away, Bond strokes his thumb over Q’s where their hands are joined.

“I’m so sorry I put you through all this,” he says. “But for what it’s worth, I love you too.”

The look Q gives him is filled with such fondness that Bond feels it warm him all over. 

“James, you idiot,” Q says. “It’s worth everything.”

**Author's Note:**

> This fic sprang fully formed from my head at 1:30 in the morning. I hope you enjoyed.


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